


Macro Lens

by VeryBadMau



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Bad Ending, Butterfly Effect, Cliched Horror Tropes, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Incest, Misandry, Murder, There is a glitch in the matrix, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-14 23:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryBadMau/pseuds/VeryBadMau
Summary: In another world, Cyndia doesn't die; Mrs. Ishtar survives her son's birth; Shadi Shin isn't killed by Bakura; Isis never takes her little brother outside. Everything goes wrong anyway. Horror AU. One-shot.





	Macro Lens

**Author's Note:**

> This was partially written as a gift for Pegasus' birthday, and published late because the middle of the story ran away from me and I had to wrangle it back. Such is life.
> 
> While I confess [another horror/tragedy AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16272062) is a terrible present for one of my favorite fictional characters, I also refuse to take any responsibility for my decision. October is spooky month, and it's Kazuki Takahashi's fault for having Pegasus be born at this time of year. 
> 
> I'm sorry, Peggy. I'll make you a better gift next year, I promise.
> 
> **Warnings:** This is not a happy story and it does not have a happy ending.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are copy-written to Kazuki Takahashi and Konami. I just create content no one asks for or really wants.

A woman fidgets with a linen handkerchief before putting it back in her purse. She brushes her voluminous, pale blonde hair behind her ear with a deep breath, and she reaches for her seven-year-old daughter sitting beside her. The girl is a miniature reflection in almost every way, and the woman holds her little hand in her own. The beauty mark below her left eye twitches, and she bites her lip.

“It will be okay,” she says, rubbing circles on her daughter's knuckles and petting the top of her head. “Everything will be fine, darling.”

The tremble in the last word chips at the woman's Standard American dialect and reveals the Upper Received Pronounciation of her upbringing—“_dah-ling._” The girl is not sure if she believes her mother's prediction, but she doesn't want her to feel bad, so she pretends to agree.

“Okay,” the girl says. Her eyes drift, briefly, to the pink band-aid with bright-eyed ponies over the center of her arm, and she proceeds to read the battered copy of _Watership Down_ in her lap to stave off the boredom.

They startle with a jump as the doctor opens the door and waves a clipboard beside his head.

“Great news!” he beams. “Everything looks good.”

_Break._

A wiry Egyptian man lays a massive cornucopia before the excited horde of children. Their chattering fills the chambers of the shrine, and the triangular markings at his forehead rise with his smile. He hums in amusement as each child takes their serving before gently reminding them to ensure there are equal portions.

The markings wrinkle, and he frowns, when he feels the Ankh grow heavy at his neck. He looks over his shoulder at the Millennium Stone.

The Items pulse.

“What is it, Shadi Shin?” a little girl asks. “Is something wrong?”

Shadi Shin hums again, half-perturbed and half-doubtful.

“... No, Sera. Nothing is wrong,” he lies. “Go back to your meal.”

_Break._

The laughter and discussion of the Las Vegas elite fades when they lock eyes.

He has just turned ten, and the flash of red that coats his cheeks clashes with the pistachio hue of his tuxedo. She waits patiently with her hands crossed at her lap for him to speak, but he struggles to find the words.

Instead, the boy offers his hand. There is a moment of surprise and contemplation, but the girl comes to the conclusion there is no harm and entertains the gesture with a subdued giggle behind her fingertips.

As he tugs her away from the party to explore the dark thickets, the boy knows, at that moment, that life can only get better.

_Break._

The men of the clan bow as the Chieftain raises his infant son to the moonlight and rejoices.

In the shadows, a woman holds her daughter's hand and sighs.

She had wanted Isis _and Rishid _to inherit the Torque and Rod when the time came. She thinks an outsider is preferable, as she finds the alternative distasteful and a risk to the wellness of the bloodline, but so be it.

She chooses to trust what Fate intends is for the best.

She also reminds and resigns herself to the fact of what is to befall her natural born son, and she does rather like Rishid, despite knowing that holding such a sentiment is a mistake. She supposes, in the long term, it is best not to get attached to another boy.

“One of my duties has been fulfilled,” she says simply, squeezing her daughter's hand. “I shall turn my attention to another.”

“What is that, Mama?”

Her golden eyes glint. Isis giggles as she is picked up by the waist and slung over her mother's shoulder.

“Your education.”

_Break._

“So, what are your plans after high school?” Cyndia asks.

“Marrying you,” Pegasus says dreamily.

“_Peggy_,” she teases, pinching his arm. “C'mon, now, we've been dating for _years_. Tell me your all your dirty little secrets.”

“If 'dirty' is what you are looking for, you will be grossly disappointed,” he confesses. He picks several daisies from the plush, green expanse of the hilltop as they sit beneath a tree.

“Try me,” she says with a sly smile. She tries not to blush when he takes the compact daisy bouquet and places it behind her ear.

“You probably already know,” he says with a sheepish grin.

“I have a suspicion, but I don't really _know_. That's why I'm asking!” she laughs.

“What's your suspicion, then?” he asks with a raised brow. He plucks a long blade of grass that has yet to go to seed and places it between his teeth, crossing his arms behind his head and resting against the tree in an attempt to look cool and collected.

He fails terribly and looks like a dork, but Cyndia does not have the heart to tell him—and it is cute, in his own way.

“Cartoonist?” she guesses. “Or do you want to be an animator?”

He blinks and the blade of grass falls from his mouth, but he recovers quickly with a smile.

“I see how you could think that, but no,” he chuckles. He picks up the fallen blade of grass and rolls it between his thumb and index finger.

“Really?” Cyndia asks. “But you _love_ Funny Bunny, and all the Looney Tunes shorts and Hannah-Barbera shows...”

Her eyes widen at a realization, then narrow with a saucy grin as she rolls her shoulders.

“Or do you wanna do hardcore stuff like _Heavy Metal_?”

She gets the reaction she wants and Pegasus' face resembles the surface of a ripened tomato.

“I don't think either of our parents would be happy if I did that,” he laughs nervously, “and it's really not what I want to do as a career.”

“So what is it you want to do then?”

“... I would like to be a traditional artist,” he finally says. He stares forlornly at the clouds as he continues to roll the blade of grass between his fingers.

“Really?” she asks again. Her tone isn't judgmental, but she is genuinely surprised. “Nothing modern or avante garde? You really want to make a career of oil painting?”

He shrugs haplessly and lets the grass blade drift away with the breeze.

“I want to travel the world and depict it through my own eyes,” he says quietly. “That's my dream job... Silly, isn't it?”

“Mmm, I wouldn't say that,” she says with a sideways smile. “I kind of want to do the same thing, to be honest.”

“You paint too?!” Pegasus gasps.

“Er, no,” Cyndia says, looking down at the grass. “Not the painting. The traveling, I mean. I'd like to be a photojournalist, doing stuff like Bourke-White or Ut. See places and things other people may not know about or may not care to see. So... maybe not _exactly_ like what you want to do.”

“But you _do_ want to travel? See the world?” Pegasus urges.

“Yes?” Cyndia says, intending the word to be a statement and instead coming out like a question. “The future is an uncertain thing. There's so much we can do, but it's also sort of scary to think that far ahead. I don't even know where I want to go to college yet.”

“I don't think it's scary at all,” Pegasus says. He places his hand over hers and brings it to his lips. She smiles at the gesture, but there is still an air of uncertainty to her eyes.

“We'll make our dreams a reality,” he vows. “I promise, Cyndia. We'll work together, travel the world _together_. I know in my heart, so long as we have each other, the future will always be certain.”

_Break._

A man with long white hair adjusts his glasses as he stares intently at the Polaroid photograph, before slapping it on the table of a nondescript souvenir stand.

“_This,_” he speaks sharply in Arabic. “_I am looking for an artifact that bears this eye, much like the replicas you have here. Do you know of a location where I can find __a__ genuine item __like this picture__?_”

“_I know not what you mean, sir. All these artifacts are genuine._”

“_I am the curator of a museum a__nd hold a doctorate in __a__rchaeology__. __I am not a tourist and I am not here to haggle. __Do not waste my time. Do you know where I can find this artifact or not?_”

“Daddy, your voice,” whimpers the small boy at his side, gripping the hem of his brown suit jacket and tugging. “People are staring.”

“Not now, Ryou,” the man chastises in English. “I'm conducting important business.”

“But that lady is looking at us.”

He glances to where his son points. They only see an empty gap between two cob buildings and a row of produce stands as the local _fella_ and occasional tourist passes by.

“There is no lady, Ryou. It's just your imagination,” he dismisses. He looks away from his son and turns his attention back to an irritated salesman.

“... But she was right there,” Ryou says quietly, but he decides to accept his father's assessment and instead fidgets with a small asp trinket he plans to gift to his little sister when they return to England.

Around the corner of a fruit cart, a woman glares.

“Isis, a review,” she starts. Her teenage daughter stops chewing on her snack of fresh dates and quickly swallows to reply.

“Y-yes, Mother?” She tries to subdue a coughing fit as the fruit tries to crawl into her larynx. The older woman sighs at the sight and offers a sip of water from a small jug.

“What is the role of our men?” she asks. Isis forces the water down and answers after another fit of muffled coughing into her palm.

“To guard the grave and Memories of the Nameless Pharaoh,” she chokes. An annoyed, pointed look from her mother informs her that it should be the last time she does so.

“And _our_ duties?”

Isis understands the emphasis. Not only theirs, but of all women who bore the name Ishtar.

“We are to provide,” Isis says, clearly this time, and she passes the jug back to her mother. They know the many roles that come with the statement.

Provide food.

Provide water.

Provide money.

Provide clothing.

Provide children.

Provide information.

“_And_?” she presses.

“We are to listen,” Isis says. Yet there is more to listening. There are eyes that see and cannot be seen, watching and waiting for any news of their Pharaoh's return—and any threats to their purpose.

Her mother cradles the jug against her torso and peeks around the cart once more. She thinks the man to be another Theosophist crackpot looking to Egyptian natives for answers they can't find in their own books, in their own land, but he then screams of sacred tablets, of mystic artifacts with eyes, a lost city of the dead, _Kul_ _Elna_, and he swears on his own life he will find them at all costs.

She knows he speaks the truth.

“And if we do not like what we hear?”

“We are to act.”

Though Isis is still not certain what that entails.

Her mother smiles.

“Very good,” she purrs. She watches as the foreigner recoils from the stand, his son cringing as the vendor throws the photograph back in his face and tells him to leave in a colorful dialect. Her smile inverts at the spectacle, and something pulses at her neck.

“It is time for your next lesson.”

Isis squints as there is flash of light when her mother balances the jug atop her head and lovingly palms the knife at her waist, before slipping it back into its sheath.

“Tonight, you will learn how to deal with interlopers.”

A minute later, a frustrated archaeologist and his embarrassed son encounter a Sa'idi woman who stumbles and trips in their path. Their shoes are soaked when the water jug shatters at their feet, and she apologizes profusely in her native tongue as her daughter kneels to help her. The woman's beige hood falls back and the cloth at her neck just happens to slip below her collar, revealing a brilliant gold necklace with a prominent eye at its center.

The man gasps and cannot stop himself from taking hold of this woman, shaking her by the shoulders and asking, desperately, where she obtained her jewelry. The teenage girl stands awkwardly beside her mother as the woman informs him of an unmarked tomb and promises to take him there in exchange for a hefty sum. His little boy, who looks on fearfully but cannot bring himself to speak, reminds her so much of Malik. She immediately tries not to think about the similarities when the boy's father happily accepts the exchange.

One month passes, and little Amane Bakura sprints down the stairs when she hears a scream from the living room. She finds her mother sobbing at the foyer, kneeling before an officer with a report in hand. She finds out later that night, when her mother composes herself, that her father and big brother died exploring a tomb in the Valley of the Kings. The small grave, after thousands of years of being undisturbed, collapsed while they were inside. After the bodies were found beneath the rubble, they were identified by their fingerprints, as passports were not on their persons, and dental records had been impossible to acquire; their heads were crushed by stones.

A tragedy, truly.

_Break._

He stares at the Millennium Scales, each side moving up and down, up and down, up and down, up and—

“It is still going?”

Shadi Shin arches his shoulders and his eyes grow more severe as the Scales continue to search for balance.

“Yes, Diva, it appears so,” Shadi Shin says. He places his hands on his knees and leans into the Item. What is it trying to tell him?

“The Ring has been acting strange too,” Diva says. Shadi Shin turns and gasps when he sees the small, golden points vibrating with an ominous (but weak) purple glow in the Millennium Stone.

“It is,” Shadi Shin says. Despite the sudden activity, a sense of relief washes over him, though he cannot explain why this is so.

Once again, the Ankh grows heavy at his neck, and the Millennium Eye flickers.

_Break_.

The air is crisp with the first sign of Autumn in the forests of Lake Tahoe. The sky is clear as the water, the pine trees are a vibrant emerald, and their parents are the most rigid they have ever been.

“Cyndia, my love, you have been playing with that for ten minutes now. I think you've chosen all the ideal settings for the photo,” Pegasus chuckles. He tries to ignore the restrained glares exchanged between his mother and now mother-in-law; his father appears oblivious to the tension and Cyndia's father is oddly subdued on the matter.

“It's not ideal until you're all smiling.” Cyndia adjusts the lens for the seventh time and ensures the tripod is stable for the fifth. Their families acquiesce her command and she grins.

“Now, just let me get the timer set... All right, I'm coming. Make room!”

She grabs armfuls of her wedding dress and does her best to sprint in the white heels as she takes her place between them. She smooths the wrinkles out of the gown, and Pegasus gingerly wraps an arm at her shoulders while the other takes her hand. A tear builds at the corner of his eye when his thumb brushes over the rings at her finger. He fights the urge to sniffle, and though it takes some effort, he finds the willpower to look away from his bride, _his wife, _and pay attention to the camera. The blinking red dot gives Cyndia the cue she needs.

“Okay, everyone, say 'Gorgonzola cheese'!”

The picture would have been perfect if Pegasus hadn't blinked.

_Break._

Isis is a woman of twenty and Malik a man of sixteen when the contract is drawn. Malik fervently takes the Millennium Rod from his father when it is offered. Isis does not receive the Torque with equal enthusiasm.

A shiver runs down her spine and crawls into her stomach.

The family eats their meal together in silence. Rishid stands outside the room, looking on from the entryway with a hungry stare when their mother offers a serving of tea to the newly retired Chieftain.

As is their custom, Malik is sent to the shrine of Osiris and must speak with the priests for a week and a night.

Their father must relinquish his title.

He is groggy and disoriented when a neat line of women file into the room. They are cloaked in black veils bearing the Eye of Wdjat at their foreheads, and with the exception of their weathered, tattooed hands and dagger-like nails, Isis cannot decipher any other quality that would mark them as human as they descend on her father with knives.

He does not fight them when they cut the cloth from his body. Whether it is due to dogma or the tea, Isis is not wholly sure. Her mother nonchalantly rises from her seat and the women in black proceed to slam him into the table and bind him to the wooden posts. Isis cannot help but wince as she sees the scars on his back.

Her mother does not so much as blink when she draws her knife.

The women in black light incense and chant over her father's cries as the former matriarch performs her duty. Though it is difficult, Isis keeps her eyes trained on the spectacle, observing the angle of the blade edge and how effortless her mother makes it look as she meticulously peels the skin from muscle. Isis observes two of the women in black prepare a canvas wrap by coating it in salt, presenting the cloth to her mother as she completes the last of her task and places the bloody side of the hide against the woven surface.

“When you are done with that, come back with a camel. I shall deliver it to the western library,” her mother says in a flat, dismissive tone. She flicks her father's blood off her fingertips with a sneer as the women retreat and take the Memories away to be tanned above.

Isis grimaces as she remembers her mother's words, when she once explained the rationale.

“_Three thousand years of custom and you think we would only keep a man and a stone? That's poor record-keeping, Isis,” _her mother had scoffed.

“_But why is it our duty to protect the Chieftain and his son if we are to do... that_ _to them, in the end?_” she had whimpered.

“_Skinning a ten-year-old __boy__? __That is just cruel__,_” her mother had said, completely missing the point of her question, or not caring at all. “_And the parchment needs time to develop._”

Isis is broken out of her memory when she sees one of the veiled women hold a bowl beneath her father's head. The rest kneel before her mother as she reaches forward with her bloody hand and grabs a fistful of her husband’s hair to yank his head back and present his throat.

“It is no longer your role to bear the Memories of our king_,_” she says.

Isis knows what is to come, but she still wants to scream. She swallows the urge and instead clamps her hands over her mouth as her mother places the knife to her father's neck.

“Your duty is done.”

Isis cannot bring herself to watch, so she averts her eyes elsewhere.

It is the first time she has seen Rishid smile in years.

_Break._

“So, what names do you have picked out for our children?”

Cyndia sputters into her teacup and proceeds to cough into her napkin.

“W-what now?” she chokes as she sets the white ceramic cup on the table. She wrinkles her nose as she looks down at her blue-and-white checkered blouse and sees several drops of tea splattered on the front.

_Goddammit, Peggy, this is my favorite shirt._

Her husband stares dreamily with his chin in his palm and his elbow on the table. She wraps the napkin around her fist and rubs her knuckles against her sternum in an effort to absorb the wasted tea.

“What would you like to name our kids?” he repeats. “Surely, you would want something a little more imaginative than Pegasus and Cyndia Junior?”

Cyndia becomes increasingly invested in removing the stain on her shirt and refuses to make eye contact. She had wanted to go to Crete for Fall vacation, but Pegasus wanted to see Morocco. Neither wanted to budge on their position, so they came to a compromise when he mounted a map of the Mediterranean on their bedroom wall and she threw a dart while she was blindfolded. After puncturing the reading chaise once and landing in the middle of the sea three times, the dart had finally settled on Egypt. Pegasus was delighted with the outcome, but it was certainly not her first choice.

The weather is too dry and too hot, and her voluminous hair is having a horrible time keeping itself tamed with the climate. She has to bind it back in a ponytail to keep the blonde tresses from sticking to her face, but the rest of her unruly mane flows wildly from the confines of the hair tie and she needs to be mindful there is no one behind her, lest she whips some poor bystander with the golden mass. On the positive side, the luxury cruise from Cairo to Luxor was as entertaining as it was beautiful, and she had been able to capture more than her fair share of the _felucca_ sailors on the Nile.

She also likes the rustic, quaint ambiance of the small cafe on the outer edges of the neighboring city of Qena and the pictures she catches of the local happenings. The quiet of the environment and the soothing herbs of the _koshari_ tea are a welcome solace between hauling their luggage into a rickshaw and navigating their way through unfamiliar territory.

But what is not welcome in that moment is her husband’s keen intention as she scrubs off the last of the stains on her shirt and drops the napkin down on the table, before reaching for her cup and bringing it to her lips.

“I... haven't given it any thought, really,” she finally says. “Children would be an impediment to our lifestyle, don't you think?”

Cyndia takes a cautious sip. There is something infuriating about the way he laughs and shrugs at her question.

“I don’t think it would be an impediment at all,” he says. “It’s not as though we don’t have the financial means, and I have plenty of friends who grew up happily traveling abroad. I confess we couldn’t be as sporadic with our choices, but if we planned well in advance, there would be plenty of international tutors lined up.”

“The assets and education of the child—”

“Or _children_?” he interrupts with an excited waggle of his brows.

“_Theoretical_ children,” she mutters behind her cup, “is not what concerns me. We would have to change how we do things, and I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

_Ever._

“Cyndia, my love, nothing would have to change,” Pegasus urges gently. He reaches forward and places his hands atop her own when she places her cup on the table. “Remember the vow I made? We don’t have to give up our dreams or our adventures in lieue of having a family. So long as we have each other, anything is possible.”

Cyndia sighs at the reasoning. They have had discussions like this before. The topic always differs, but the dynamic does not. He operates on sentiment; she operates on logic.

Her hand slips from his as she brings her cup to her lips again and eyes him critically.

“Would _you_ like to carry the baby—_and my camera equipment_—for nine months?”

Pegasus laughs nervously and rubs the back of his head.

“I’m not saying we need to hop into having kids right away. I am saying, I don’t think it will hinder our careers abroad. A family is doable—in the future.”

Cyndia responds with a noncommittal hum and closes her eyes. Pegasus recognizes the cue and takes the hint—_drop it_— but his jovial mood remains as he takes out a copy of _Lonely Planet: Egypt_ from the leather satchel resting in his lap and flips through the pages.

“There are several Coptic monasteries in the area.”

Cyndia furrows her brow and frowns above her cup.

“Mmm.”

“No?” Pegasus asks. His tone expresses curiosity, but his face is vexed.

“Peggy, we’re on vacation,” Cyndia sighs. “I toured the Czech Republic taking pictures of God knows how many churches and spent a night in the blasted Sedlec Ossuary for _National Geographic_ last month. I’m burned out on ascetic architecture.”

“The Dendera Temple Complex, then?” he asks as he points to the page, and he quickly rebuffs the annoyed look she gives him. “What? The ancient Egyptian religion wasn’t exactly what one would call ‘ascetic’ by today’s standards. They were really quite liberal in many of their practices. Says so right here.”

She doesn’t see him point to the footnote and closes her eyes again.

“Mmm.”

Pegasus sighs at the terse response and softly shuts the book against the table.

“Cyndia, my love, I know it’s a cliched, tourist-y thing to do, looking at temples and pyramids in Egypt, but need I remind you, we _are_ tourists. Not every photograph you take has to be the next Maier.”

“Just as every canvas you paint doesn’t need to be the next Monet.”

He blinks and his jaw jerks forward with pursed lips, before he leans over with a sideways smile and lifts his teacup.

“... Touche.”

Cyndia replies by clinking her cup against his with a small smile before she sighs again and places her empty hand in her lap.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a pain,” she says. “It’s just, it’s such a common thing: the ruins, the temples, the monasteries and mosques. You open a history book or glance at a brochure, and the angles may be different and the name may belong to a different photographer, but it’s fundamentally the same picture. I don’t want to take a photograph of a statue or a pyramid when at the end of the day, it’s the same damn pyramid and the same damn statue the world has seen a thousand times over.”

“Ah, yes, still life never has interested you, has it?” Pegasus mused. “You want to be more like Rockwell in his prime or Van Gogh when he was drafting, focus on ‘the common man’.”

“If you mean I want to document _real_ _life_, then yes,” Cyndia says with a smirk before she takes a sip of her tea. She would rather take a photograph of a vendor with a disposable Kodak than a shot of the Sphinx with the newest Leica. “The everyday person is a far more interesting subj...”

Pegasus narrows his eyes with a confused blink as Cyndia’s expression transforms from the sly vixen he’s familiar with and is replaced by a deer in the headlights. Her hand drops with her tone and the side of her palm hits the table with a dull thud as her cup clinks on the tabletop. Several droplets splash out from the force, dribbling down the sides of the ceramic and sliding down her fingers. Cyndia doesn’t seem to notice as her jaw is slack as she stares beyond Pegasus’ shoulder.

“Hmm?” Pegasus hums with an ached brow, and he looks in the direction that has rendered his wife so uncharacteristically speechless.

Several empty seats and one lonely fruit stand away, there is an Egyptian woman. Her face, as well as her posture, is impeccable as she sits at her table and concentrates on the paper in front of her. At her side, haphazardly resting near her right elbow, there is a teacup and a pot with gold and black Arabesque engravings. In one hand, she holds a calligraphy pen; in the other, she clutches the end of a hose to a hookah that matches the aesthetic of the tea set. She wears a tan _jilbab_ over a beige _jellabiya_ that would have been quite plain had it not been for the navy square pattern at the hems of sleeves. The hood of her tan _jilbab_ rests at the back of her neck, revealing the bronze expanse of her collar and a brilliant gold necklace with an eye at its center.

With the hookah hose still in hand, she brushes a strand of stark, silky black hair behind her ear with a finger before she takes a deep puff of _shisha_ and writes with a determined glare as she exhales. Her eyes glint like a pair of lapis lazuli stones, a pleasant contrast against the thick eyeliner and stern expression on her face.

Pegasus turns his head back to Cyndia to discover her awe has transformed into inspiration in the short time he had looked away.

“She is quite pretty, isn’t she?” Pegasus observes, and he casually flips through his travel book. “She looks more like the wall paintings in the tombs than the women we passed back in Cairo.”

Cyndia says nothing as she fumbles through her luggage. When she finds what she is looking for, she unzips one of the padded cases in her backpack and takes out her primary DSLR camera. Pegasus raises a brow.

“Ah, so you _are_ going to take her picture,” he smiles. “I’m far from fluent, but I have been studying my Egyptian Arabic. I can ask her for you.”

“No need,” Cyndia says curtly as she selects her favored lens for street portraiture and locks it into place. Pegasus cocks a brow.

“You don’t plan on paying her? That’s rather rude, don’t you think?”

“I will pay her—in a moment_. _I want a candid shot."

There is always something more honest, more _organic_ about an unaware subject. The behavior, the body language, the mood, the moment; she needs to capture it _now_.

Cyndia will pay for it later.

She leans over the table and rests her forearms on Pegasus’ shoulder to steady herself for the shot. She promises herself not to get too carried away, not to make her attention so obvious.

“Stay still, Peggy.”

_Just a few shots_ _. _ _That’s all I need._

The woman continues to scrawl on the sheet and places the end of the hose back to her lips.

Snap.

Instead of exhaling directly in front of her person, the woman cocks her lips to the side and a series of smokey wisps flow from her mouth.

Snap.

The woman raises her pen from the sheet and leans her head into her hand, as though unhappy with the words she conjured in ink.

Snap.

Despite her supposed displeasure, the woman proceeds to take several more puffs of _shisha_ and continues to write.

Snap.

Cyndia feels herself leaning too far forward on her husband’s shoulder and shifts her weight for better balance.

Snap.

Pegasus winces as his wife’s elbow digs into the crook of his neck and pinches a nerve.

Snap.

“Ow, Cyndia!”

Snap.

The woman tilts her head up to see what is causing a commotion.

Snap.

Though they are resting in the shade of the cafe building, an odd shine runs across the woman’s necklace, and Cyndia reflects the sudden look of consternation as her lapis lazuli eyes lock on the camera lens.

_Shit_.

The Egyptian woman’s expression shifts from dismay to terror as her eyes glaze over from blue to black. The pen slips from her fingers and clatters to the table.

“Damn it,” Cyndia hisses. “Peggy, you ruined the shot.”

Pegasus grunts as she removes herself from his person and he massages his neck.

“My sincerest apologies, dear. I shall try to suppress the regular functions of my nervous system the next time you decide to use me as an impromptu tripod.”

Cyndia doesn’t comment on the sarcasm as she stands up straight. She is more worried about the woman sitting not-that-far from their table, who is still staring at them with abject terror as she sets the hookah hose beside her teacup and wraps her trembling fingers around the eye of her necklace.

_Poor thing __i__s mortified,_ Cyndia thinks. She sighs and slings the strap of her camera around her neck. There is no use hiding anything.

With each step she takes towards the Egyptian, Cyndia sees her recoil in her chair and grip the necklace until her tan knuckles pale to a yellow-ish white. She clenches her teeth as Cyndia approaches with an open palm as her other hand gently cradles her camera.

“_Ah... I am very sorry. I should not have taken your picture without your permission. I meant no offense._”

Cyndia’s Arabic is clumsy and it is not the correct dialect for the region. The woman is still visibly upset, and before Cyndia can offer another apology, the Egyptian’s face contorts with resentment.

“You,” the woman trembles with a light accent. Cyndia blinks in reply.

“You speak English?” Cyndia asks, pleasantly surprised. The Egyptian woman’s nose wrinkles in disgust.

“It is wise to learn the tongue of those who openly violate my country and my culture,” she hisses. “And my livelihood.”

Cyndia cringes at the words. She speaks very good English.

“I’m very sorry. I did not mean to ‘violate’ you. You just looked very nice sitting here with your tea, and your letter, and your _shisha_, a-and I wanted to take a few pictures.” Cyndia lifts the hem of her shirt and begins to unzip her hidden travel wallet. “I was planning on paying you for the photos, really. I hope this helps...”

The Egyptian glares at the dollar bills and slaps them out of her hand.

“Money cannot compensate for what has been lost!” she screams, on the verge of tears as a hand flies back up to grasp her necklace as the other points accusingly at Cyndia. “You_... __you..._”

The Egyptian woman whines as the tears finally flow over her cheeks. Her hands move to cover her face and she plops back down into her chair as she sobs into her fingers. Cyndia vaguely remembers there are various indigenous cultures throughout the world that believe one’s soul is stolen and sealed within a photograph when it is taken. She is not certain if there is a similar belief held in Egypt, and she is also not certain how she can remedy the situation if this is so.

“I-I’m very sorry,” Cyndia stutters. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I only wanted—”

“You cannot possibly begin to understand what you are apologizing for,” the woman whispers. She peeks over her hands and tiny, pulsing red veins stain the white of her eyes. Her gaze is near manic, and Cyndia is wondering if now is a better time to abandon all the theatrical pleasantries and run away.

“Um...”

Cyndia is thankful when Pegasus rushes to her side.

“_Miss, please, there is no need to cry. My wife, she is a professional photographer. She graduated at the top of her class and has won multiple awards for her work. __All that considered, it__ is quite flattering she found you to be an alluring model, if I do say so myself._”

Cyndia cannot decode all of Pegasus’ words, but from judging the way the Egyptian woman’s expression softens as he speaks in her language, she supposes they are good enough.

What Cyndia decides is not good, however, is the small, calculating smirk that crosses the woman’s lips as she wipes away her tears and stands to peer up into Pegasus’ face. Cyndia is wary, and grossly irritated, when she notices the Egyptian looking at her husband, up and down, as though he were a piece of meat.

“_She is your wife?_” the Egyptian asks as she points to the woman in question. Cyndia squints as she tries to interpret the rushed dialect while Pegasus nods in confirmation.

“_She took pictures of me without my permission. That is __a great__ offens__e__,_” the woman affirms. Pegasus knits his brow with a frown.

“_She is very sorry for that, Miss, but as I observed, she tried to pay you and you refused._”

“_Money does not repair th__e__ e__rror__. You are her husband. Her mistakes are yours as well,_” she says matter-of-factly as she points between the couple. “_You must apologize on her behalf._”

“_I’m sorry?_” Pegasus says, half as a question and half without truly meaning it.

“_Not like that,_” the woman says. “_You __and your wife__ must apologize before my f__amily__ for violating my honor._”

“Bwa-huh?” Pegasus balks. Cyndia narrows her eyes. She does not understand everything that is being said, but she understands enough.

She doesn’t trust her.

“_Your_ _wife__ is sorry for what she did, yes?_” the Egyptian asks, bobbing her head once in Cyndia’s direction. “_And you are sorry as well?_”

“_Well, yes, Miss, but—_”

“_As I have already said, money does not __repair__ what has been done. You want to apologize __properly__? Then I shall invite you into my home and both of you can make things right._”

Cyndia reaches forward and grabs her husband’s upper arm. She raises herself on her tip-toes and brings her lips to his ear.

“Peggy, I have a bad feeling about whatever she is saying,” she says lowly. “We should go, _now_.”

The Egyptian does not wholly hear what Cyndia says, but her eyes narrow at the words all the same.

“It is very rude to travel abroad and refuse the custom of the locals, you know,” the Egyptian woman states in precise English. She takes a step forward and pinches Pegasus’ chin between her fingers, turning his face to his right and smirking as she observes his left pupil dilating in shock at her boldness.

Cyndia snarls at the sight.

“Last I checked, it is also considered rude in this country to touch a man who isn’t your husband,” Cyndia growls as she tugs Pegasus away from the other woman. “But I shall forgive you for the transgression. So as far as I see it, we’re all square.”

She tugs on Pegasus’ arm again, but he does not budge as the Egyptian grabs his other arm to anchor him in place.

“Hardly,” the Egyptian woman retorts. “Marriage is a binding contract. Your actions are his own. He must apologize properly in accordance within the doctrine of my culture.”

“Well, you must forgive me for my close-minded, ethnocentric tendencies, but when people get married in my country, one party does not claim ownership over another, and it is considered unorthodox to accept an invitation from a complete stranger; it’s very _suspicious_,” Cyndia says with a feigned smile that the Egyptian returns with equal disdain.

Pegasus grunts as they both sink their nails into his arms.

“Little wonder you thought it acceptable to take my picture without my permission. Your country sounds quite inhospitable,” the woman coos.

“On the contrary, I think it is quite practical.”

“Ladies, please!” Pegasus cries as he pries their fingers out of his person takes a step back. Cyndia looks on apologetically while he massages his biceps through the fabric of his off-white blouse.

The Egyptian woman glares.

“... The two of you have committed an atrocious wrong,” she says grimly. Her hands clench at her sides. “It must be set _right_.”

“You must forgive our skepticism, Miss. We mean no offense, but we are not from here and what you have suggested is a dangerous proposition, from our perspective,” Pegasus says as he continues to rub the soreness out of his arms. “Does our presence before your household mean that much to you?”

“It means the world to me,” the woman says without hesitation.

“Small world,” Cyndia mutters under her breath, and the Egyptian scowls in response.

“You said you do not want money as compensation, but we do not feel comfortable being interrogated by your relatives,” Pegasus says, trying to keep things on track. “Is there perhaps a compromise we can reach, something you will find satisfactory?”

The Egyptian looks down at the ground and traces circles over the eye of her necklace. After several seconds of contemplation, she speaks.

“... I would like the photographs,” the woman says. “Since _you_ did not ask before taking them.”

Cyndia grimaces at the assessment, but nods in admission.

“That is fair,” she says. “I can find a dark room in Luxor and have them developed for you in three days.”

“Two days,” the Egyptian says, fingering the pupil on her necklace with a far-off stare. “You will give them to me at the entrance of my home.”

Cyndia opens her mouth to argue, but Pegasus interrupts her.

“Sounds like a decent compromise,” he offers. The Egyptian smiles at his agreement, but her expression turns sour when Cyndia crosses her arms at her chest with an upturned lip.

“It sounds like a trap.”

_Break._

“You are certain?” asks Shadi Shin. He looks to her, over his shoulder, from his place before the Millennium Stone. The hood of her garb hides her eyes from view, but he does not need to see her face to understand her sense of urgency.

“That woman is the key,” Isis presses as she speaks to him from the base of the steps. “Because of her, the mechanisms we need for the Final Duel do not exist. Our mission will not progress if things stay as they are!”

Shadi Shin says nothing as he regards her with a nondescript stare. She exhales sharply through her teeth.

“It already proved difficult to convince her to come to the tomb entrance. That man has only been kept as he is because of her being. I do not know how or why, but somewhere, some_thing_ went wrong and...”

She grinds her teeth as she clenches the gold at her neck. The pulsing light leaks between the gaps in her fist.

“The pieces must be put in their place. Order needs to be restored. It is fated; it is what must _be_.”

His lips curl.

“I, too, have sworn my loyalty to the Nameless Pharaoh, Madame Ishtar, but this solution you suggest...”

“I have foreseen it,” she urges as she presses her fingertips against the Millennium Torque. “It must be done—for _them_.”

Isis sweeps her arm in a gesture to the children watching her from the shadows.

_And my brother._

“They will never gain the Prana you have promised if we do not act.”

The children gasp at the declaration and begin to whisper amongst themselves. Shadi Shin’s eyes narrow with an air of dismay at the words (and her attempt to spark a mutiny), but he cannot deny her statement.

“Children, please, there is no cause for commotion,” he says as his eyes wander around the temple. His gaze settles back to Isis with a severe glare as their voices settle to silence. “... Give me a minute to think.”

Isis knows she doesn’t really have a choice in the matter as he falls quiet again and turns his back to her to consult the remaining Items in the Stone. She sighs deeply and looks to the side.

She is mildly startled when one of the children is standing to her immediate right. It is a girl wearing a pink _jellabiya,_ quite similar to her own, with a triangular pattern at the hems and an ankh at her chest while her brunette hair is decorated with gold bands throughout. She looks to be no more than ten years old, though Isis is savvy to the establishment of Shadi Shin’s orphanage and wonders to her true age.

“... Yes?” Isis asks gently.

“I don’t remember my mother,” the girl says, “but I like to think she was as pretty as you.”

Isis feels a rush of blood to her cheeks with the statement and tugs the center of her hood further down her forehead. As things are now, one of her duties is to bear a son, but if Shadi agrees to collaborate, as the Torque told her, then it will not be necessary and the cycle will cease. Though Isis also finds herself enamored with the idea of having a daughter, and she wonders if Shadi will let her adopt a girl or two when all is said and done.

An image of Rishid flashes in her mind’s eye, and she winces.

_I am becoming my mother._

She thinks to the letter she had been writing earlier that day. She had become so involved with the matter at hand that she never finished it, which is just as well. The beginning is contrived and rife with fake niceties, asking her mother about the current events in Libya, and if the grandmother she never met was still in good health, and if the aunts she had met a grand total of three times were getting along or continuing their lifelong quarrels; it was so convoluted, feigning interest in what was happening on that side of the border, pretending to hope all was well when she didn’t truly mean it and wondering if her mother could sense her unspoken loathing through the ink and paper.

_P__archment_.

Her breath hikes in her throat as she remembers her little brother’s muffled cries on his tenth birthday. Her heart tries to anchor itself to her spine as she remembers her father’s scars peeling from his back like a ripened grape.

Her hands clench into fists at her sides.

_ It will stop . _

_I have found another way._

_Just wait, Malik._

“You say the Torque showed you these events?” Shadi Shin asks suddenly, appearing in front of her person like a phantom and snapping her out of her reverie. She recovers from her brief shock and tames her lips into a tight line with a tighter nod in affirmation.

“Yes.”

The Ankh glows in response, urges Shadi Shin to search the soul of the woman who stands before him, but the shimmer of the gold at her neck and the conviction in her voice speaks enough.

He closes his eyes.

“I see.”

_Break._

The Egyptian woman flips through the photographs with mild interest as Cyndia and Pegasus argue.

“There is no way in hell we are going in there.”

“Cyndia, my love, we have just mended one faux pas. After coming all this way, I think it would be poor of us to reject her offer and act like a pair of Ugly Americans.”

“On the contrary, dearest, I think now is a _great_ time to act like an Ugly American.”

The Egyptian woman fingers the corner of the picture that captured the moment she exhaled her _shisha_, admiring the shape of the smoke and her distant gaze.

A shame. She would have liked more like this one.

She tucks the pictures away and clears her throat to cut through their quibbling.

“It is a great shame that such talent be wasted,” the Egyptian muses. “Please, take this offer as a show of forgiveness. It does not look like much, but this is my home and I would like to share it with you.”

“You honestly expect me to believe you live in an unmarked tomb?” Cyndia asks with a piqued brow. She clutches her camera in a death grip and huddles it to her torso. Pegasus grimaces at the rebuttal, but the Egyptian woman merely blinks and speaks flatly.

“We are not all born in opulence.”

Her words strike Cyndia with a small wave of guilt as she remembers the first bout of photographs she took upon reaching the country, the slums of al-Qarafa and Manshiyat Naser in Cairo. Yet she still cannot shake the feeling in her gut and the voice of reason in her head.

“Forgive me, I just... I am not comfortable with death.”

“There are no cursed mummies in this tomb, if that is your concern,” the Egyptian says, and Cyndia is not certain if the woman is trying to attempt humor or stating an obvious fact.

“I did not give you permission to take my pictures, but in turn, I confess I overreacted. This is my compensation to you, in return for your lovely work.”

The Egyptian gestures to the dark entrance framed by winged, weathered statues. Pegasus’ interest in this place has been palpable since they arrived, but Cyndia cannot rid herself of the chills running through her nerves.

“This tomb has never been seen by foreign eyes; it is not a registered tourist site,” the woman informs. “Within, there are tablets and artwork that have never been documented or photographed. I think it would suit both of your interests well.”

Cyndia is still skeptical and wonders if it is all a scam; she does not want to think about another alternative.

Pegasus takes the woman at her word.

“I think it would be an interesting experience,” Pegasus says. Cyndia bites her lip.

“Peggy, I really don’t—”

“You’ve said so yourself, you have no desire to take a photograph of something the rest of the world has already seen,” Pegasus says helpfully. “But this is an opportunity to capture something the world _hasn’t_ seen. This place isn’t in any of the brochures or travel guides, so surely, you’ll find something of interest. At the very least, something worthwhile for the scrapbook back home.”

“...”

Cyndia absently fingers the dial of her DSLR camera, saying nothing but still looking wary. Pegasus responds with a sympathetic smile.

“If it really causes you that much anxiety, I can explore the tomb by myself while you wait up here,” he offers innocently.

The Egyptian woman stands just behind his person with a tilted head and an arched brow. She makes an obvious display of licking the lining of her cheek as she glances down at the seat of his pants.

In that moment, there is a surge of fury and Cyndia forgets her fears.

“Not a chance,” Cyndia growls. “I’m going with you.”

Isis grins at the declaration.

_Got you._

_ Break. _

“There is a common misconception that the ancient Egyptians truly believed these gods bore the heads of the animals you see here. The context of their being and representation is often viewed through a literal lens, and the ancient state of mind is regarded as primitive and simplistic as a consequence of this misunderstanding through the ages.”

The air carries the scent of dirt and flame as mounted torches light their path. Pegasus soaks in every word and every carving, exhilarated by the immaculate renderings on the walls. Cyndia is barely listening as she finds the artwork unnerving. She cannot pinpoint the reason or rationale, but the farther they walk into the tomb, the less she wants to do with the images that assault her vision.

The Egyptian woman continues to drone on with her presentation.

“Thousands of years ago, it was recorded that the veil between realms was nonexistent to the ancient rationale. The consciousness of the material and immaterial moved and melted into one another, and this created chaos. In response, mankind created the boundaries between worlds. This action created order, but in turn, the boundaries they formed bore the consequence that mankind would forever struggle to seek the unity they once had with their higher consciousness.”

_Sounds like bullshit_, Cyndia thinks.

Her bullshit detector goes into overdrive at the increasing anachronistic anomalies between the creatures on the large tablets that line the halls. There is a stretch of mages and magicians whose appearance is more akin to Medieval Europe than ancient Egypt, a section of dragons whose body types shift between the winged beasts of the West and the long lizards of the East, scattered between images of horned imps, Harpies, fairies, and what look to be fuzzballs with stunted limbs and large eyes.

Cyndia squints with a curled lip as she lifts her head from her camera after taking another photograph. The art style is consistent throughout, but the subject matter makes no sense. It is nothing like the earlier pieces at the entrance of the tomb, what one would consider typical of ancient Egyptian art. There are no gods or people here, just monsters.

“Oooh, these look interesting!” Pegasus exclaims as he points to the next series of tablets in the line-up. “Cyndia, get a picture of these!”

_There is no way in hell those things are Egyptian_, Cyndia thinks.

Each creature bears the singular, stylistic eye that finds its way into every other tablet and adorns the necklace of their guide, but that is where the similarities she has seen thus far ends. The creatures look to be something out of a dark science fiction novel, more akin to the works of Lovecraft and Ashton Smith as opposed to the papyrus replicas that plagued every other giftshop in the country. The depictions are alien, comprised of basic shapes with many eyes and sharp claws, looming over incense burners and framed by ritualistic smoke.

Cyndia looks away from the center piece, a freakish amalgam bearing what appears to be a mirror at what could have been its stomach and a phallic rendering coming out of what could have been its head. She fusses with the camera settings, and when she is satisfied with what she has chosen, she takes the pictures Pegasus wants. The eyes of the monsters come alive with every flash, and Cyndia tells herself it is all due to the lighting.

The guided tour continues with little surprise or fanfare, though the Egyptian woman stares at them with far too much interest for her liking. Cyndia attempts to push the feelings of uncertainty into her stomach, until a sharp chill pierces her chest and makes her heart skip a beat when they approach a stairway leading to another destination beneath.

“This is where my tribe has maintained the most important relics in our care,” the Egyptian says as she gestures to the stairs. “I would be honored to share their significance with you. Please, follow me.”

Pegasus is bright-eyed and ecstatic at the prospect, but Cyndia interrupts him before he can accept the invitation.

“I think it would be best if we head back now,” Cyndia says. She grips the sides of her camera as though to cement the statement in place. “I appreciate your hospitality, but we have overstayed our welcome.”

The Egyptian woman’s eyes contract to slits.

“I do believe that is for the host to decide,” she says, almost like a hiss.

“You are far too kind,” Cyndia says with similar expression and intonation. “But I must confess I am not the sort of person who can take advantage of such generosity in good conscience. Pegasus, it is time for us to go.”

The Egyptian sways with a sense of urgency, as though to take a step and reach for her husband’s person, but there is no need for the action.

“Cyndia, don’t be so hasty,” he chuckles good naturedly. “We’ve come all this way, and I would be a terrible liar if I said I’m not at all curious. Please, indulge me?”

“_Peggy_,” Cyndia groans. “Please, dear, I don’t—”

“I shall do the same for you,” he bargains. “I confess I have little interest in the place, but after this is done, we can book the next flight to Crete.”

For all its absurdity, this strikes a chord within her. Pegasus detests anything having to do with Greece. Cyndia blames much of it on the relentless teasing he endured as a child due to his namesake, along with one poor experience involving a goat during a family vacation on the isle of Mykonos that nearly took out his eye when he was six. It is so superficial, so trite, so frivolous and convoluted, and yet this promise to fulfill one of her lifelong desires at the expense of his own comfort is meaningful only to them. Only she can comprehend just how much he wants to see this through.

“Don’t think I want to do this all alone either, you know,” Pegasus utters as he places his hand over his heart. “I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the rest our trip knowing I had left you alone here in the dark.”

He offers his hand.

There is a moment of hesitation and contemplation. Cyndia tries to tell herself, over and over again, that there is no harm, that there is nothing that awaits them in that hole except for forgotten relics and shabby artwork, harmless things of little value or interest in the grander scheme of their lives, that all that awaits them beyond this trip is verdant mountainscapes and brilliant horizons.

Despite the bells ringing in her ears and the cold sensation that continues to run up and down her spine, she chooses to ignore the springs coiling in her ankles and focuses on the endless warmth in her husband’s eyes.

With a small nod, she takes his hand, and they descend.

**Break.**

There is darkness.

There had been a tinge of claustrophobia since they stepped past the entrance of the tomb, but the sensation multiplies tenfold as all they can see beyond them is the Egyptian woman walking up a narrow passage of stonework to yet another set of stairs. The cloth of her tan _jilbab_ sways back and forth with with every purposeful step, then stops, when she stands before the base of the stairs.

“These are the most precious artifacts,” she intones. She extends her arm in a sweeping motion and points to the top. “Take as many pictures as you wish, and we will be done here.”

As though possessed, Pegasus excitedly begins to ascend the steps with no protest as Cyndia cautiously trails behind him. She has questions, many questions, bubbling and overflowing in her increasingly frantic mind.

Why had this woman reacted so poorly to photographs of herself in the street, and yet is so willing for her to have strangers take pictures of her own home? Why so much willingness for strangers to see her home at all? Why the sudden eagerness to have a pair of tourists gawk at a site that supposedly wasn’t in the national registry—and for free, no less? Why did this woman have no interest in money despite the clear fact that she lived in a tomb? But did this woman _really_ live here? Why did they choose to believe her? But then, what reason would a person have to lie about living in a grave in the first place?

Why is her husband so motivated, so _enamored_ with these old pieces of rock? Why is he so engrossed with the stone they see at the top of the steps? Why does the stone resemble a sarcophagus, and why are there various shapes scattered throughout like puzzle pieces? Why are some of the shapes empty while others holds odd bits of jewelry that bear the massive eye on the wall in front of them? Why is there a long, serpentine groove above golden eye at the sarcophagus’ forehead? Just what had been in that empty groove befo—

Cyndia’s teeth click when the Egyptian woman approaches them from behind, and a series of eyes blink in the shadows.

_Why—_

A numerous band of street children emerge from the surrounding darkness and reach for them with the same determined stare as the Egyptian woman with the gold necklace.

_How—_

How could they have been so fucking _stupid_?

There is another flash of light, and a thin man resembling a bald monk with triangular markings at his forehead materializes behind her husband with a glowing ankh dangling from his neck.

“Pegasus!” Cyndia shrieks. Pegasus has no time to react to her warning as a young man of Nubian descent lurches from the shadows and wrestles her husband to the ground. The monk does nothing, says nothing, and disregards her presence entirely as he focuses on her husband with cold, empty blue eyes.

More children appear from the darkness and join him in the task of restraining him to the ground.

“Cyndia!” Pegasus shouts. “Run!”

She disobeys the command and clenches her camera tightly with one hand as she reels forward with a fist to punch the cryptic mystery monk and his horde of brats, but the strike does not land as more children appear from the shadows and wrap their numerous little hands around her arms and legs, digging into her skin and tearing with tiny, jagged nails.

Cyndia hisses and shouts as they proceed to claw at her ponytail. She struggles against the onslaught and her hair tie snaps from the effort, a wild blonde mane exploding from the confines and pouring about her shoulders as she wrenches away from their prying hands.

Adrenaline pulses through her system and her eyes flicker around the room, looking for some thing, some way out of this mess. Amidst the chaos, she refuses to let go of her camera, clinging to the device for dear life as she fumbles the dial for a shutter feature and presses the button to take a series of photographs in the middle of the assault. Out of spite, out of instinct, she glares at the stoic Egyptian woman with a defiant snarl and takes her picture—with the flash on.

It may have been petty, and it may not have been the best substitute for a middle finger, but Cyndia still finds some small satisfaction in the irritated wince on the woman’s face as she looks away and rubs her eyes.

Out of the corner of her vision, Cyndia sees a young girl in a dark pink dress and gold headband emerge from the thronging horde. She does not appear to have any ill intent, but Cyndia takes personal offense when she reaches for her camera.

“Don’t touch that!” Cyndia cries. She means to slap away the child’s hand, but the shadows of the flickering torches disrupts her depth perception and she slaps the girl across the face.

The child curls into a ball on the ground and begins to cry, and all eyes, at that moment, are on Cyndia.

“_Shit_,” Cyndia swears, at her actions, at her foolishness, at the insanity of this predicament that could have been so easily avoided.

Not a child, but a teenager, a young man with dark hair at odd angles decorated with bands of gold, swears at her in his native tongue. She is torn from the grasp of the other children as he tackles her with enough force to jerk her body at an unnatural angle and lifts her off her feet. Her camera whips out of her grasp from the force, and the lens shatters when it strikes a decorated pillar. Her cheek collides with the cold ground, and the children gather around, reaching once again for her person. The girl she had slapped immediately stops crying and quickly gets to her feet as the young man places his knee against her lumbar and forces her arms behind her back.

“Let go of me, you little shit!”

“Cyndia!”

She jerks her gaze up from her place on the ground and sees her husband kicking wildly in the grasp of his captors as he is dragged to the head of the stone.

“Pegasus!” Cyndia shrieks.

“_Diva_,” the monk drones and curls his finger at the youth squatting on her back as he trails behind the distraught silver-haired American with an almost bored stare. “_Leave __th__at__ woman__ to __Sera and__ Madame Ishtar. I wish for you __and Mani__ to help me with this one._”

The young man barks an order at the other children. They swarm on Cyndia’s person to keep her pinned to the floor as he exitedly hops to his feet and sprints to help the other teen restrain her husband.

“No!” Cyndia screams as tears brim at the corner of her eyes. “No! Leave him alone, you bastards! He didn’t do anything! _I’m_ the one who...”

She chokes at the realization and tucks her chin into ground.

“Shit,” she swears through her teeth. “Shit, _shit_. This is all my fault.”

“Indeed,” the Egyptian woman agrees nonchalantly. “But the error will be corrected today.”

Cyndia glances up and beholds not the woman, but her shadow.

The severity of the situation crashes upon her when she sees the knife in her hand.

“I’m _sorry_ I took your picture, all right?” Cyndia screeches, thrashing in futility as the children apply their full weight against her limbs. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! _I’m sorry! _You can have my camera! You can have all our money! You can have whatever you want! Just, _please_, stop this and let us go!”

“I cannot do that,” the Egyptian woman says. “You do not understand—you cannot possibly understand—, but I promise you, you play an important role in the Great Game.”

“What _fucking_ game?” Cyndia’s voice cracks beneath her husband’s wails as her tears drip down her chin and soak into the stone slab.

Cyndia sees the little girl emerge at her side with her DSLR camera, seemingly concerned with figuring out how the device worked with little regard to the cracked lens. Before she can curse, damn the little brat and everyone in the room for immortalizing her miserable last moments, Egyptian woman squeezes herself between the children and straddles her backside.

“Why are you all doing this?!” Cyndia pleads. “What do you want with us?!”

Cyndia grunts as a surge of pain radiates from the base of her skull when the Egyptian woman grabs a fistful of her hair and jerks her head back to expose her throat. She can hear, _feel_ a warm breath against her sweaty, damp flesh as she brings her lips to her ear.

“What we _desire_ is not a matter of _want._”

Cyndia’s eyes strain from the tension of this new position, but she now has better view of what is happening before her. The teenage boys force Pegasus to his knees, and the monk callously plucks the golden eye in the center of the stone’s forehead.

“What we _need_...”

The words blur and fade in Cyndia’s head when the monk plunges the dense sphere into Pegasus’ left eye. Her scream blends with her husband’s, amplifying the tortured frequency throughout the chamber of the shrine.

She never registers the cold, polished blade against her neck.

“Is trauma.”

**END**


End file.
